


You Make the Memories

by henghost



Category: BLACKPINK (Band)
Genre: Degradation, Dom/sub, Drinking, F/F, Reader-Insert, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28217874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henghost/pseuds/henghost
Summary: You run into your high school sweetheart Jennie Kim at a work party, and she remembers what you like.
Relationships: Jennie Kim/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	You Make the Memories

You’ve got an empty champagne glass in your hand. You’re watching the blackness through the glass the venue’s got for a back wall. Glass glass glass. The whole night seems primed to shatter. It’s started to snow. Someone taps your shoulder. You turn and they say, “Oh my god I  _ thought _ that was you!”

It takes a second to recognize her, but then — “Jennie?” you say. You aren’t sure at first because of what she’s wearing. It seems at first too unglamorous for her: black sweatpants striped with white, which scrunch up at her ankles. The sort of graphic tee one might wear to bed. Flip-flops. But a second glance reveals the wealth peeking through. Chanel sunglasses, rose-colored and totally opaque. A little LV handbag. 

She sips something amber through a thin black straw then hugs you. Your heart goes crazy despite the booze (of which you’ve already had too much — open bar). “What are you doing here?” she says.

“Oh,” you say. “Work. I helped with the ad campaign, so my boss made me show up. I would ask why you’re here but . . .” Behind her a screen hung from the ceiling switches slides to show Jennie brandishing the newest Nikon camera, whose launch party you’re at now. Its slogan is: “You make the memories, we’ll save them!”

She laughs. She says, “So embarrassing. I look awful in all those shots.”

“You don’t,” you say. “You really . . . don’t.” 

“You,” she says. “ _ You _ look great.” She tugs at your formal blue blouse. She takes your glass. “And you’re empty. There’s an open bar, you know. C’mon. I’ll order something for you. Let’s catch up.”

You didn’t expect her to be here. You wouldn’t have come if you expected her to be here. She grabs your hand and tugs you toward the alcohol. Apparently her patience hasn’t improved since high school. You watch her chocolate hair bounce against the back of her neck. You nearly stumble over your heels. 

You sit thigh to thigh at the bar, and she says, “I need something strong. How about you?”

“You pick,” you say.

She orders two shots of whiskey, and when they arrive she clinks her little glass against yours and throws her head back to swallow it one go. Her top lip glistens pinkly with the liquor till her tongue comes to lick it away. You drink yours just as quick. She says, “So, what have you been up to?”

“You mean in the, what, six years since we last spoke?”

“Has it been that long already? I’ve been busy.”

“Busy, right. I guess I know what  _ you _ were up to. Hard to miss it.”

“Are you angry at me?”

“I’m not angry. It’s only that it’s difficult, you know, to see you on TV sometimes.”

“Well. Sorry.”

You look away. The place is huge and has that old linoleum smell. Circles of execs dressed in suits and dresses have formed, spaced like black acne along the bright white floor. They’ve hung up loads of posters featuring the product, and there’s Jennie in all of them. Over in the corner there’s even a cardboard cutout of her with the camera slung around her neck. Two young men come up to this cutout, and one of them puts his arm over paper-Jennie’s shoulders and the other takes his phone out to capture the moment. Jennie — the real Jennie beside you — watches them and laughs. She says, “I’m right here!”

“Is that why the disguise?” you say. “So people wouldn’t come up to you for selfies or something?”

“Disguise?” she says. “Oh — no. I just couldn’t be bothered to put on something fancy.”

“They’re taking a photograph of a photograph. And you must be one of the most photographed women on the planet, Jennie, so really it’s like they’re taking a photograph of a photograph of a photograph.”

“It’s not real unless it’s on a screen. It reminds me of this joke I heard the other day. Wanna hear it? Stop me if you’ve heard it before. So, a man and a woman are filming an,  _ ehem, _ adult scene. And in the middle of it the man realizes he’s losing his erection. He pulls out of the woman and goes: ‘Sorry. Sorry everyone. Let me just pull up some porn on my phone to get it back.’”

You smile and your face goes hot. “You always had such a dirty mouth,” you say.

“It’s only with you,” she says. “I love it when you blush.”

She orders two more shots.

#

You drink some (read: a lot) more. You tell her how you got your job at the advertising firm. She tells you how awful all your favorite celebrities are in real life. She asks, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No,” you say. “Are you?”

“Not seriously,” she says. “Hey, can we go somewhere a little quieter?”

By now you’re too drunk to decline. You’ve been smelling her perfume all night. She orders two G&Ts to go and drags you — she’s always dragging you! — to the other end of the floor, down an empty corridor. The walls and floor and ceiling are all that spotless corporate white. The heat’s up way too high, and you’re sweating. She sits with her back to the wall across from the lady’s bathroom, and you sit beside her and take a long swallow from your drink and grimace. You take off your heels and rub your feet.

“Do you remember our first kiss?” she says.

“I remember,” you say. “The darkroom at school, wasn’t it? Kind of cliché, in hindsight. It was my first kiss. Not just with you but with anyone. Did you know that?”

“What about the first time we fucked?”

“Jennie . . .”

“Was it so awful?”

“We were  _ kids, _ Jennie. We didn’t know what we were doing.”

“We knew what we were doing. At least, you seemed to know what you wanted. Do you think about it often? I do, sometimes. It was so simple. And now it isn’t.”

“I really didn’t expect you to be here. I do think about it. Can I tell you something, Jennie? The other day, someone sent me those shots of you with the camera for some reason. I remember I was sitting at my desk. I have a cubicle. And I opened the photos and it was like — I hadn’t thought about you in so long, but when I opened the photos it was like I went back in time. It was like I’d been sent back to my childhood bedroom, with you beside me in your school uniform. And I couldn’t help myself. So I checked to see if anyone was watching, and when I was sure there was no one I sort of hitched my skirt up and looked at you on the screen and fucked myself. It was difficult to be quiet. I was just so lost in the memory.”

“And did you finish?”

“Of course. I always finish anything I start. I’m fastidious like that.”

Jennie sets her drink on the floor and gets to her knees. She straddles the legs you’ve stuck straight out and touches your cheek with the back of her hand. “Don’t,” you say. “Someone will see.”

“No one’s seen me all night,” she says. “Except you.”

She takes off her sunglasses to see you better, and then she kisses you. She puts her hands in your hair and slides her tongue over yours. She breaks away and sighs and comes to kiss your ear and whispers hot: “I . . . remember . . . what . . . makes . . . you . . . come. . . .” She breathes against your neck, and goosebumps grow all over your body. She gets up and pulls you up as well and into the bathroom and bolts the door behind you. Then she’s on you again: her tongue’s all over the inside of your mouth, and her hands come sliding down your back to grab your ass and squeeze. . . .

She presses her thigh between your legs and kisses her neck, and you say, “This is a bad idea,” all sighs. She undoes the first button of your blouse, then the next, and the next. You are powerless to stop her. 

“Why would I care?” she says. When your shirt’s all the way off she says into your ear, “If I told you to get on the floor for me, baby, would you?” She says baby in the same tone, same cadence as all those years ago. She remembers everything. You nod. You drop to your knees and undo your bra and throw it into the corner. The tile is cold against your hot skin. She looks down at you like you are so small she could swallow you whole. Everything. She remembers everything.

You grab her hand and put her index finger in your mouth and it tastes like sugar. “Do you still like,” she says, “to be called dirty names?” You close your eyes and nod and put her middle finger in your mouth as well. She steps out of her flip-flops and kicks them away. She says, “And do you still love to beg, my pretty little whore?” 

You take her fingers out of your mouth and say, “Yes,” and look up at her. Her dark hair swings over her dark eyes. She licks her cherry lips. 

“Then beg,” she says, “for whatever you want.”

“Please,” you say. “Please make me . . . kiss your feet, Jennie.”

“My feet?” she says, and laughs down at you. “You’re dirty, aren’t you? Dirty, dirty. You can kiss my feet if you want, slut. That’s all you’re good enough for, anyway.”

You bend and kiss her big toe, whose nail is painted baby pink. Her feet are as small and dainty as you remember. You lick along the milky skin. You hear her sigh. “Like a little puppy dog,” she says. “A little bitch.” You moan into her ankle — words like these get you wetter than anything, as she well knows.

“That’s enough,” she says, and you stop. “Take off my pants.” You get on your knees and put your hands at either end of the waistband but she says, “No, pet. Your mouth. Use your mouth. Don’t be stupid.” So you kiss just below her navel and bite the elastic and tug. You have to get on all fours to get them off completely. You pull off her sheer black panties the same way. Her (trimmed) hair brushes your face in the process. Smell, they say, is the sense most closely connected to memory.

She brushes your hair out of your face and says, “What do you want?”

“I want to taste you. I’ve wanted to taste you all night. Please. Please.” Every inch of your skin burns. 

“Aww,” she says. “So desperate. You were always so needy.” She puts her hand on your head and guides you closer. You kiss her either thigh a few times before her clit, which is stiff and red. She grips a bundle of your hair in her fist and moans and goes, “Fuck. Now who’s the one with the dirty mouth?” You lick up her slick slit and suck her clit between your lips. You slip a single finger into her. Her legs shake and her hips twitch. Time seems to not exist at all. It seems to be occurring all at once. Her moans are high and distant and squeaky. There are dozens of people not a hundred feet away. Your knees throb dully against the ground. She tastes like PE, like health class; she tastes like home. Her voice cracks when she says, “I’m so close.”  Your mother is in the other room. She doesn’t mind that you have the door locked because you’re only with a friend, after all. You are drunk on the vodka Jennie bought with a fake ID. You are drunk for all sorts of reasons. You have work tomorrow. It is comfortable to be owned. Everyone owns something, and Jennie owns you. She bought you back then and you come with a lifetime warranty. Jennie comes against your tongue and digs her nails into your scalp and screams as quietly as she is able and all you can do is taste. Her muscles squeeze then soften. She backs away and you try to keep tasting and almost fall on your face. 

She pants for a few seconds then says, “Get up.” You get up. She pats the counter with all the sinks and says, “Bend over.” You bend over the counter and look at yourself in the mirror. Your cheeks and chin gleam under the fluorescence, and your hair sticks up at odd angles. You can’t see Jennie because she has bent to pull down your pleated skirt and peel away your soaked underwear. She kisses the back of your thigh and then your buttock. She stands and smiles at you through the mirror, and you say, “Please fuck me.” She spanks you and you yelp from surprise.

“Be patient,” she says. “I’ll fuck you when I want to.” She traces your labia with her middle finger and you whine. “You’re dripping. Look at yourself.” You look into your own eyes. “You are a dirty whore who is begging to be fucked in a dirty bathroom, and you are dripping.”

“Yes,” you say. “Please.”

She kisses your back. She pushes a finger into you so slowly you almost wish she hadn’t. You arch your back and whimper, and she pulls you up by your hair to make you stare at yourself. She fucks you steadily quicker. She adds a finger. It is humiliating to look at yourself moaning, and it makes you wetter. You are still so drunk. Her thumb rubs your bud. You watch her face, determined and hungry, sweating and smirking like she’s in front of a crowd.

“Are you getting closer, my sweet slut?” she says.

“Oh . . .” you say. You realize you aren’t. Everything is perfect and her fingers are practiced and she’s using them just the way you like it — but it’s too distant, somehow.

“Use your words,” she says.

“Uh,” you say. “I’m . . . not.”

“Should I use my mouth?”

“Try,” you say. “Please.”

You turn around and she gets to her knees and licks you like she’s memorized every one of your folds. Her tongue and lips are dexterous and hot. You moan and buck and yet . . . any kind of climax still seems so far away.

“Sorry,” you say. “No, sorry. It’s okay. You can stop.”

She stops. She looks up at you like she’s disappointed you. “Don’t look at me like that,” you say. “Come here, kiss me.”

She frowns and gets to her feet and kisses you and then says, “Are you sure? We can try something else. Sorry — I’m sort of out of practice with girls. I guess I don’t remember what makes you come, ha ha.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say. “I think I just drank too much or something. Or I’m nervous because we’re sort of in public. And you know it’s kind of difficult for me at the best of times and . . .”

“We could go to your place?”

“No. I wouldn’t want people to see you with me.”

The heat clicks off, and over the new silence comes muffled laughter, Muzak. “Thank you for being so mean to me,” you say, and smile. “I can’t get anyone else to be so mean to me.”

“You’re welcome. I know you love it. . . . You came in public the other day, though, didn’t you? At your office?”

“Seriously don’t worry about it.”

“What if— I have an idea.”

She pulls off her shirt and goes to search the pockets of her discarded sweatpants and finds her phone and holds it up to the mirror. She sticks her tongue out and touches the tip of her finger to it and snaps a picture then hands the phone to you. “Jennie . . .” you say. 

“Humor me,” she says.

“It’s a very sexy picture,” you say.

“I’m very sexy,” she says. “Touch yourself for me. Just try.”

You obey once more: you touch your (still slightly swollen) clit, and it’s a different sort of electricity. You rub yourself quicker, and Jennie leans over to pinch your pebbled nipple and kiss your neck. The extra Jennie on the phone seems to be helping. . . . You imagine her pixel tongue lapping at you, up and down. You imagine her whispering  _ slut _ into your ear. You stick a finger in your sex, and it is a pubescent sort of sensation, as though it’s a process you’re discovering for the first time, and you are excited and ashamed and coming closer and closer to a precipice made of pleasure, and soon enough you’re falling over and howling so loud Jennie — the real Jennie beside you — has to cover your mouth. 

Once it’s passed you kiss her hard. “I’ll send you the picture,” she says. “Give me your number.”

“Smooth,” you say.

You get dressed and wash your face and comb your hair with your fingers. You’re both ready to head back when someone knocks, and you let them in and laugh. Jennie drags you to another empty room. This one overlooks the city. It’s still snowing. “There is no one like you,” you say, and kiss her again. There is so much kissing to make up for. You take out your phone and play music and start to shimmy clumsily: bedroom karaoke. The songs are old enough to have been remastered. Jennie dances like she has never practiced dancing, drunk and uncoordinated, and you watch her reflection in the window. It stops snowing. You dance until the sun comes up. The snow begins to melt.


End file.
